


In which Tarvek should quit while he's ahead*

by Overlord_Bethany



Series: unreliable narrators [1]
Category: Girl Genius (Webcomic)
Genre: Mid-Canon, Multi, this was probably a terrible idea
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-19
Updated: 2018-01-19
Packaged: 2019-03-06 21:18:53
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 708
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13419846
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Overlord_Bethany/pseuds/Overlord_Bethany
Summary: *but doesn't(Mostly he should probably just shut up. Probably.)





	In which Tarvek should quit while he's ahead*

**Author's Note:**

> Whatever happens in canon is probably going to be better than this.

The fight should have held Tarvek’s attention. Tweedle’s pets, perhaps, or maybe Seffie’s not-quite-pirates should have held his attention. The myriad potential threats to his person should have held his damn attention, but instead he looked to the one person he knew would do him no harm. 

Right, fine, he could admit to a degree of delirium, could admit that he felt himself smiling like a fool. And why not? Gil had come to save him. Gil, charging in like the heroic prince in a fairy tale. That made Tarvek what, the fair maiden who had fallen into the clutches of evil?

Well. It wasn’t far enough from the truth to stop Tarvek’s giddy smiles. 

When Gil rushed to his side, Tarvek fumbled for something snappy to say. Gil seized him by the collar and hoisted him up off his feet.  _Great, make me a better target_ , Tarvek though sourly. Or perhaps he said it. If he did, Gil ignored him. 

“This is mine, and none of you can have him,” Gil announced, his voice full of the Spark.  _Mine_. Tarvek’s thoughts reeled at the word. When Gil lowered him back to the deck, Tarvek struggled to find his feet. He stumbled, and he slumped against Gil. Not intentional, but he would absolutely take it. Strong hands supported him, and that lovely machine oil scent nearly overpowered the stench of the little airship. Tarvek inhaled, leaning a little closer to let it fill his nostrils. Machine oil, warm wool, and an acrid undertone of fresh dye. A new coat?

_For me?_

Tarvek’s heart gave an awkward little flutter, probably all the strength he could spare on exhilaration, and he felt his knees go a bit wobbly. He wanted nothing so much as to lean a little more, to bury his face against the curve of Gil’s neck and let those powerful arms keep him upright. 

“What’s wrong with you?”

Oh, had that thought shown on his face? “Shocky,” Tarvek replied, somehow smiling again. “Bleeding out. Probably poisoned. Triage would be nice.”

He could almost pretend that Gil ripped his shirt open in a rush of passion. Almost. He tried for a sigh and managed a shuddering gulp of air. Gil looked up from his wounds, expression clouded with—with what? Tarvek’s gaze flicked from eyes full of thunder to firmly set mouth and back. “Yes, of course I’ll marry you,” he blurted. 

Oh, no. 

Gil hesitated for a second before he scoffed. “You’re delirious. Agatha isn’t here.”

Maybe a little. Tarvek glanced at Gil’s lips again, and he wondered. Could he get away with stealing a kiss? Would Gil also ascribe that to delirium? In this weakened state, could he survive Gil punching him? He deliberated, his eyelids drifting slowly lower until Gil gave him a short, sharp shake. 

“None of that,” he commanded. “You stay awake.”

It was probably the imperious tone that provoked him. Tarvek let his muscles sag more, putting more of his weight on the arm that held him up. Bit by bit, he made his breathing more ragged, and when Gil met his gaze again, he blinked slowly, as though fighting to keep his eyes open. 

“Gil…”

Panic flashed across Gil’s face like heat lightning, and Tarvek felt a twinge of guilt. So he really did care. That, at least, was satisfying to know. He beckoned weakly for Gil to lean closer. 

“Gil, you…”

“Don’t you dare die,” Gil hissed through his teeth. He leaned so close, close enough that the ache in Tarvek’s chest had nothing to do with his wounds. Their foreheads touched in a gesture somehow as intimate as a kiss. 

He had to end this before everyone knew, before a handful of witnesses undid the work of all the years he had protected Gil with his silence. 

Tarvek drew one more feeble, faltering breath before he allowed his stare to sharpen. He grinned a broad grin. 

“You need a haircut.”

“You—” Gil almost dropped him. “I thought you were dying!”

Tarvek wheezed with laughter. It hurt, but he laughed anyway. Let Gil scowl. Someday, if they all lived long enough, he would realize that Tarvek had meant every word he had said. For now, the rescue would be enough.


End file.
